


And Meanwhile I'm Loving You So Much

by Kendrix



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Finwe is trying his best, Finwëan Ladies Week 2020, Indis PoV, Miriel & Indis friendship, loyalty conflicts, not exactly unrequited love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 06:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26847352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrix/pseuds/Kendrix
Summary: Actually, it was Indis who saw him first
Relationships: Finwë/Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Indis & Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: Finwëan Ladies Week 2020





	And Meanwhile I'm Loving You So Much

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-sbFOuWyjtE <\- recomended music

“ _Nonetheless among the Eldar, even in Aman, the desire for marriage was not always fulfilled. Love was not always returned; and more than one might desire one other for spouse. Concerning this, the only cause by which sorrow entered the bliss of Aman, the Valar were in doubt. Some held that it came from the marring of Arda, and from the Shadow under which the Eldar awoke; for thence only (they said) comes grief or disorder. Some held that it came of love itself, and of the freedom of each fea, and was a mystery of the nature of the Children of Eru.”_

_\- HoME X, Laws & Customs among the Eldar_

…

You would wonder many times what might have happened if only you had fully disclosed your intentions that day – To _her._ To _him_. To either of them.

When you would recount the tale to your children in later days, your eldest son would jump from his spot on the couch and interject with some excitement: „So _that’s_ when you and father got married?“

It might have been, if someone more like your dear Arakano had been in your place: You had no doubt that he would have gone on his own, marched straight up to the object of his affections and made his declaration. Already, he was showing so much of that boldness and eloquence you had always admired about his father.

But that‘s not what happened.

Centuries later, you would have to calm down your giggling children and tell them that this would not be for quite some time.

Of course, you will not say how you were doubtful and uncertain, and never would they suspect such a thing behind your ever-steady smile.

You, however, will always remember how you could not find that sort of foolhardy courage in yourself, how this perturbation in your usual good cheer had even your ever-steadfast brother the littlest bit worried.

You were _going_ to say it, you’d made the decision to say it, but you still lingered on the threshold, dreading to give yourself the final little push needed to move into action, as if you were waiting on fate to move you like a chess figure.

In hindsight you cannot really say why you couldn’t spit it out – it might have been a product of the marring of this world, as much as everything that followed after.

But if courage was not your strong suit, you were at least blessed in plenty with wisdom and understanding. You thought that there must be a proper, reasonable way to do it, some manner to string and tune the threads of fate so that they might be made amenable to the melody of your fingers.

You speak to your brother; You bring up how both your great tower and the palace across it are nearing completion and how this would be just the right time to think of commissioning artists and artisans to furbish both of them with paintings and tapestries and any other number of precious things – all the craftspeople and weavers had much expanded their skills with the new resources and teaching provided to them by the Valar; Surely they would welcome an opportunity to show off the newest shoots of their ingenuity; better yet, they should make a great exhibit of it, a public event, so that even those artisans who weren’t commissioned on royal business would get a great deal of exposure out of it. You state with certainty to your brother that, if he were to speak to King Finwe, he would certainly be able to work out something with the leaders of the then-newly formed craftsman’s guilds, but you mention also that you can already think of a few particular artists you would like to invite – the name of your friend is a casual excuse, her growing renown just another point to argue your case.

You’re a princess by birth, and as such, you’re expected to be a patron of the arts – so whenever your heart wavers on your plan, yo’re able to tell yourself that you’re simply fulfilling your duty.

Contrived in the moment, the idea is still the product of such creativity as is brought forth in those with a cause, and it‘s a genuinely good idea.

Your brother agrees, and he even mentions how he’s very certain that King Finwe will surely think so as well -

Which is precisely what you were hoping for.

You didn’t dare to do more than nudge the events in this direction – you certainly don‘t mention to your brother that you had any particular desire to speak to the Noldorin ruler, nor would your serious, dutiful brother be the sort to suspect that sort of palace gossip fodder behind your intentions – but he even speaks of introducing you, of having you play a role in hosting the event, naturally enough, seeing as you are the one who proposed it, but thus suddenly propelled into the realization of your hopes, you find yourself struggling to keep your composure -

The prospect that your wayward hope might finally happen for real is overwhelming.

Long you have admired him from the distance, keeping the unfinished memories to yourself like your very favorite dream. You think everyday about what it might be like to tell him how you feel, but now that the real thing might be happening, you feels the tight wraps of the fear that all your treasured imagined tomorrows might come undone -

And that is, perhaps, why you felt compelled to bring the very boldest of your friends.

It is of course also because she is a brilliant worker and you know that being brought to bring her work before the kings would bring great delight to that proud, ambitious little part of her that you never quite understood, but nonetheless knew to appreciate. You do not work with your hands, but you know that he did, back before he took up the duties of kingship, so you are hoping that the presence of your friend might help you bridge the gap between your two worlds – besides, all the Eldar, regardless of kindred, were first and foremost lovers of high things and beauty, and as such, you felt that your friend’s works themselves absolutely needed to be displayed in a palace; You had thought so for a long time, and told her many times. It’s part of how you came to be so close despite all your many differences, though she was a simple artisan and yourself a great chieftain’s sister: In her youth, she was one of the few who had the gall to approach you as if you were any other girl despite your brother’s standing.

So it was really killing three birds with one stone, a chance like the planets aligning:

With her by your side, you would most certainly feel more confident, and you might impress King Finwe by showing him something that would mean a lot to him, to show him that you were willing to understand all his strange and beautiful ways, and the hearts of all his people… and since you had no doubt that he would most surely be impressed with Miriel’s work, she too would come to greater fame, and all the people would see her work an exalt her for being as great as you’d always known she was.

Back then you didn’t add ‚and then we’ll all be happy forever‘, but in hindsight you were forced to conclude that this was very much implied, if not intended – It seemed obvious enough that the king should marry a high-ranking princess, that they should join their clans together – it could only serve to strengthen the ties between their peoples, and besides, he was already good friends with your brother, his old comrade from the time of the great journey.

At the time, you might have been forgiven for thinking that it seemed almost meant to happen, and to keep thinking that, even when Miriel expressed her gratitude and excitement – after all, you had really known each other for much, much longer than either of you had really known King Finwe as more than a beloved public figure.

There was a reason that the Valar had looked at their little society gathered around just a scattering of lakeside villages, and decided that he was to be fetched and convinced if they wished to convince as many of their number as possible.

He was born to a pair in the second group of Elves that had joined themselves to Tata and Tatie, the thirty-six notable for spending a good while staring at the sky in excitement before their future chieftains could even gain their attentions. The various naming conventions were all in the early stages in those days, so it was fully possible that his parents has simply chosen his name because he’d popped out with a somewhat denser patch of fuzz than the fairly bald infants of their peers; But before long, the people also began using his name to mean skill. Even in his youth, he’d earned himself his relevance through several key inventions (to this day, his royal sigil displayed a flaming wheel, even if his inventing days were long behind) – something which the Tatyar as a people held in great value – and kept it by proving himself a good speaker and a bold, decisive leader at need.

By the time that Lord Orome would happen across the Quendi, Finwe was already something of an influential public figure. Part of it of course was that he was willing to brave the risks of the journey were many others shied away in fear from the hooves of Nahar, bold enough to propose the plan to his people, and possessed of a passionate eloquence that had inflamed many with the desire to follow him to seek their fortune in foreign lands.

You yourself were still fairly young at the time that these events took place – most of what you remember is your worry for your brother and your immense relief when he was at last returned to you.

You came of age on the Great journey, as did Miriel your friend, at a time when her people’s naming conventions were already firmly in place, and Finwe had been their chieftain for as long as she could remember – but nothing more. Neither Miriel nor her kin were ever part of the gaggle of adventurous friends that had followed Finwe since boyhood and had later become his thanes.

Sure, you had both giggled to each other in private about how handsome he was, back when the thought of him seemed distant and unattainable, little more than a theoretical consideration and sure, looking back, you think you heard her mention once or twice that she was just a teetsy bit jealous that would get to see him up close since you were royalty yourself – but that was just as much of a lighthearted jest then as you own words on the subject had been; It was the exact sort of thought that you would have been too well-bred to express if not for your dear friend‘s bad influence. It was only after you had come to the light and found the time for pleasantry and leisure that you really had the luxury of taking a good look at him:

The eagerness in his face when he all but badgered the powers to go fetch the Teleri so that he might be reunited with Elwe his friend; The ever so slight tinge of melancholy that would cross his thoughtful eyes whenever he felt the sting of his absence, wishing sincerely that he too could be enjoying the great bliss and bounty of this place; The pride welling up across his tall, solid frame as he overlooked the city from the highest balcony in her brother‘s tower, and the subtle tinge of earnest pink on his cheeks that time he mentioned how he‘d always harbored the desire to have many, many children – out of the original three chieftains, he was the only one without siblings, and he had to admit that he had always been quite envious of his friend Elwe, who with his two brothers and many cousins must have had one of the largest families all over the shores of cuivienen, but Elwe had ascended to the position of chieftain because his parents had been among some of the first of the mysterious disappearances that had terrorized their then-small community. It was part of what had made him rather protective of his remaining kinsfolk. As it stood, it was patently not safe enough to make that dream a reality – but now that the marrer was in chains and their people come to great prosperity under the protection of the Valar, he was feeling more and more that the time was ripe to make that dream a reality… if he found the right person, of course.

Something about the sincere immediacy of his feelings struck you in the chest with a sweet, fresh bubbling warmth.

Your feelings grew in depth just as the towers of Tirion climbed up to their height.

…

You recall many days where you lingered on the shores of Tol Eressea, looking forth with joyous expectations to where the streaks of glorious light could already be seen pouring into the sky.

You asked your brother many times to tell you again and again of the blessed sights beyond – you were as convinced as him that out there lay something holy. All of your people were.

Miriel, meanwhile, sometimes made you wonder if she was really grasping the excitement, though she would explain that she was – when she’d stand at the beach, she would admire the strange workings of the moving island in fascination, muttering quick observations to herself about how it might or might not work. You sometimes weren’t sure if she appreciated the miracle of it – she was glad to see new lands, but sometimes you got the sense that she was glad of them precisely because they were new, and that, if they were not, she might have been as liable to stop and get distracted by any sweet flower or whistling brook like the trailing bands of the Teleri.

Not that it bothered you, at the time – you were far from planning to marry into any Tatyarin clans, and your differences had never been an impediment to your friendship. Indeed you figured that if Eru Illuvatar had bothered to make you two so different, both your ways of beings must have had some merit.

But thoughts like these would go from the forefront of your mind once you were all living together in the great city on the hill – and perhaps that might be because you never really grasped the nature of that difference enough to put it into words, after all, it was not as if you didn’t like walking about and taking delight in the beauty of nature; Indeed, you probably had more joy in this than Miriel, who seemed to love Eressea mostly because their people were now spared from the constant marching and now had more time for more sedentary activities such as the ones that were her delight. It was around this time that she had first figured out the distaff – Miriel was young, but she was already accomplished. Warm, practical and wear-resistant clothing was in high demand during the great journey, and she knew her ways with furs and fabrics like no one else, even among her elders.

Though scarcely grown, she had gone off of her own with only Daurin her brother, leaving behind her parents and a sister who had stayed back with her Telerin husband who was likewise uninterested in leaving. All their attempts to convince her had only serve to harden her resolve, though they could not be counted entirely innocent of their daughters self-willed nature – In the beginning, the pair had awoken at the furthest edge of the clearing, and that set the tone for the rest of their lives: They always dwelt a little apart from the rest of the village and only came to its borders to trade and sell their goods, preferring to be as self-sufficient as possible. Many thought them proud, but their inclinations could not have truly ran counter to the designs of Illuvatar if he had placed them next to each other so that they would find each other sharing the same preference as soon as they could articulate that with words. Later of course there would be whispers, voices wondering if their insistence of making do by themselves had not forced them too often to eat the sub-par flesh of warped beasts and drink tainted water, as a means to explain their strangely slight, short, pale-haired daughter who stood out even among the other Tatyar.

Her parents, however, had deemed her a great treasure unmatched for as long as she stayed with them, though they warned her as their parting that she and the others should take heed lest their own children turn out as hungry for novelty as themselves.

Miriel sounds ponderous but nonetheless resolute when she speaks of it, which honestly confuses you.

Clinging ever close to your older brother, you can hardly imagine how half the Tatyar could have refused the call of the Valar in the first place – your parents, like all of your people, have chosen to follow your brother, as if they had always known this moment would come – they had chosen his name to mean ‘chieftain’ based on a premonition that he would be destined to serve as a great leader for all the Eldar. For yourself, they chose something to suggest greatness, and also ‘Bride’, for he who chooses and wins you shall become the forefather to a lineage of great heroes and champions;

But though you like the idea of having many children – be they heroes or otherwise – you thought at the time that this ‘father of champions’ had yet to materialize, and you wondered at times if you were not instead meant for one of those strange fates

Once, Miriel comforted you about this: “So what? If he doesn’t show, you’ll just have to make your own fate. Besides, who says that it has to be some particular father? It sounds to me more like whoever you pick will get the great children that _you_ get to have.”

Still, at the time it went without speaking that these hypothetical children would one day play on Miriel’s lap, and that they should play with her own if she ever chose to have them.

Everyone who knew of her friendship with you remark that you were as different as the omens that surrounded you, and you can’t disagree; But you appreciated it, and she did, too. She said you were sweet, and genuine, and a joy to be around, that she kept your were thoughtful where many of her peers would be stubborn and competitive. You would share with her some of the fruits and nuts you’d gathered while going about by yourself in the wilderness, and she, usually absorbed in her work, would thank you for thinking of her.

And sometimes, when you would find her hard at work, singing to herself in that clear, gentle voice of hers, you would take out your instrument and provide some accompaniment to the rhythm of her work.

You’re certain that if you had chosen to tell her of your feelings for the king, she would never have made her move.

...

“You!” said Miriel, pointing her brazen pale finger straight at the High king of the Noldor.

“Stay right where you’re standing, I simply _must_ capture your essence!”

At first, you felt a lurching knee-jerk fear that your old friend had simply not recognized him.

But you were soon disabused of the notion when she continued to speak at that startling breakneck pace that would take possession of her whenever she was agitated or inspired:

“Wait right here real quick- I do need to get my needles-

What am I saying, you probably have all sorts of royal business to get to, excuse me, _your Majesty_ -”

At this point, she was already so busy looking for her various implements that she could not be bothered to look her own King in the face as she talked at him, and the idea of a bow seemed completely out of her thoughts.

“I’ll just need to do a quick preliminary sketch, okay? So you can get right back to the tax reports and so on. You know what? No need for a commission, this one’s on the house. Stay _right there!_ ”

Expecting to be looked at as soon your friend had disappeared in a blur, you shrug your shoulders and try on the most apologetic smile you can think of. “My apologies. I know my friend can be a little bit… intense sometimes. She doesn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that sometimes her thoughts jump so fast that even she can barely keep up with it-”

But this explanation proved wholly unnecessary; As soon as you gather yourself enough to truly take stock of your beloved’s face, you are forced to conclude that he does not look confused at all.

He does not force an awkward laugh and look at you in understanding, he does not offer a fond little quip before asking you in detail how you met her in such a way as to suggests that he mostly wants to know more about _you_ , and he certainly doesn’t look displeased.

Instead he stares after Miriel with that same dreamy look of sincerity that you fell in love with when you heard him speaking fondly about his future children, down to the exact same faint traces of pink on his cheeks.

“Don’t worry, Indis, there is no need to apologize… you say she is a friend of yours?”

“She is,“ you answer straight away, stunned into reflexive helpfulness. “Miriel Serinde – or well, she has this thing about how she prefers to have it said in old fashion, she has always been a bit of an eccentric one, but I can vouch for her skills-”

But it is no longer decorations that he’s interested in. Not anymore.

He takes one halting step forward, almost past you, and repeats:

“Miriel Serinde. ”

…

In the early years of Valinor, the fashions and tastes in decoration were chiefly dominated by elegant designs in white, gold and silver, reflections of the light in which the Eldar had grown mighty.

But the chief works of Miriel the Broideress were _not_ like that: She surprised her peers with tapestries full of dramatic constrasts and heavy colors of flaming intensity.

If you had seen one or two of her works, you would have recognized the unique style of her handiwork wherever you saw it.

At first you had been a little doubtful about the pieces that she had picked out for the exhibit, not because they weren’t masterpieces, but because you feared that Finwe and his lords might at first not appreciate them on account of taste.

By your next visit, the work of Miriel hangs all over his palace, above all that impulse-fueled first piece that was born in her mind on the day of the exhibit.

You would have supposed that a mural in royal palace should have its ruler portrayed in all his splendor, with his long elaborate robes and all manner of royal ornament.

But the Finwe that you see on the finished tapestry is a person you’ve never met, from a time before you knew him. Miriel has chosen to depict him in simple armament on a scene from the great journey, standing surrounded by a throng of his people with a torch held aloft in his hand, and his eyes already blazing like they do now, like your brother’s did when he first returned changed from what you then thought of as the land beyond.

The detail in the forest is astounding, down to the particular little crooks and flaws in the branches that make the trees look as individual as the people. The play of the light is spectacular, the composition impressive, the colored threads combined and arranged so as to capture the vividness of the flickering torch-fire, and above all blaze the stars overhead, stylized to eight-rayed symbols.

The title is self-evident in your mind before anybody tells you of it, the thought exuded by every thread is ‘bringer of light’. At his side gleams a weapon of war the like of which you have not seen for many years.

You love the enthusiastic peacetime king you came to know here, but you’re not sure what you would think about the man with the torch. Though not per se realistic, the image looks so vivid that you could imagine that you yourself must be in there somewhere, a tender maiden throwing her arms around her big brother; It passes over all that see it like the warmth of a flame.

Your dreams do come true in the worst possible way. Miriel’s works are the talk of the town, and you do go on to see King Finwe more often, he really liked your event and probably does enjoy talking to you. But all he can talk about is Miriel.

…

Miriel doesn’t come from any great lineage, she doesn’t have influential contacts, she is not exceptional in superficial beauty nor does she have a pliable, pleasant personality, and she does not give adoration lightly.

You can’t think of any other reason why Finwe would like her unless it really was true love.

When you ask him what exactly he likes about her, under the dutiful guise of a concerned protective friend, his eyes are full of stars and he would talk about her works and how he felt the need to understand the soul behind them.

Almost every time you see him, he seems to show up with an all-new gift from her, and he cherishes all of them greatly.

Once you visit her, and you find her at her loom still in her sleeping-clothes, with her hair still in the messy braid she slept in. Though she carries your conversation without notable effort, she never once looks away from her labors, which strikes you as nearing the point of obsession even for her.

“You don’t understand. This one has absolutely got to be without parallel-”

A few changes of the light, the king is wearing it when he comes to discuss something with your brother – news concerning the Teleri, it would appear.

You almost want to lecture him to save it for the high holidays knowing how much sleep your best friend in the world lost over it.

You do not work with your hands, so this might not be something that you can understand.

Your hands can climb mountains, and they can make music that brings joy and replenishes the soul after a long day, but it is probably not so greatly exceptional that anyone would say they felt they _must_ get to know the person who played those songs; You probably play better than many of the ladies at Tirion’s court, but you certainly do not write anything new.

But the worst of it all is that you speak to Miriel, too.

She does not gush at all; She simply looks at you with her wild, wide eyes and tells you straight to your face:

“I am going to marry the King.”

You’ve known her long enough, now, to tell that this is one of these things where no one can convince her otherwise.

Unless it were her closest, oldest friend.

It is not that you are not tempted, that is not what wisdom is – rather, you recognize the temptation for what it is and waste no time convincing yourself that it is anything else.

You do realize of course, that if the king had chosen any other woman, your dream would already be over. You’d be telling yourself that Illuvatar works in mysterious ways and that you’d want him to be happy even if it’s not with you, even painfully aware that this your understanding comes from feeling what he is feeling except for somebody who is not you. You’d be halfway through convincing yourself that you probably never stood a chance, if he went on to go and choose someone as unlike to you as he could possibly find.

Some nasty doom-touched part of you _shrieks_ inside its binds about how Miriel was never all that interested in marriage, never especially keen on having children, never ruled it out, either, but she was fulfilled enough as she was with all of her incessant work, and if she turned out to be lined up for some sort of strange fate, no one would have been all that surprised.

Instead, it would seem that it’s your progeny of champions and heroes that must go to the backburner, though it was not at all inconceivable for you to speak to her, or for her to move out of the way if she was made aware of your situation -

It would be so easy just to convince yourself that it was supposed to be you, that you were supposed to have a destiny – and maybe you were, but the plan of the world has gone crooked, the card decks of causality have been reshuffled, and so maybe instead someone might come to be in this world who was never supposed to be in it. Or, as you are pious enough to think: Someone who wasn’t _necessary_ before, in a world without cracks or dirt stains or dissonance.

You still cannot take it from her.

She is your best and oldest friend.

And in a sense, you’re grateful to the One for making this choice a bit easier; there can be even less of a question now that you’re doing it for both of them instead of having to hope that your love for just him would be enough by itself.

…

You’re in the palace on business.

The hickeys and love-bites are all too obvious on Miriel’s Magnolia-petal skin.

She doesn’t seem to notice them herself until she skips past some reflective serving-tray of polished metal.

The response she blurts out confirrms what you’ve already suspected.

“Oh dear! Looks like Finwe has done quite number on me!”

She notices you, though, of course she does. Instead of giving you any convenient reasons to resent her she goes through an assorted list of quick pleasantries in her usual fast yet exact manner; She even slows down look enough to take a nice good long look on you and ask you if you are alright.

You know best that she can sometimes have quite a lot of her own kind of patience.

When you make it back to the upper levels of the Mindon Eldalieva, even you can’t hide your discomfiture behind your ever-present smile; At least, not from your brother; He can clearly tell that you are upset, and to cheer you up, he goes to bring up the most recent results of the latest discussions.

It was about then that the first plans were being made for the Minyar to withdraw from Tirion and move further inland to live out in the plain under the full light of the trees – but the Noldor in turn have by and large grown attached to the fair city they built and can’t fully bring themselves to turn their backs on the greater world that they came from, so it is expected that Finwe would remain with his people right here in the Calacirya, and you have no doubt that Miriel would stay right here with him.

And of course you love the light every bit as much as your brother does; The Elder King and Queen have shown all your people and especially your family great favor, and you would be honored to dwell alongside them in their own land with their own people now that you have grown to cherish them.

\- but if you are being honest with yourself, this is only part of the reason why you are departing. If things had been otherwise, maybe you would be staying.

But it is not so. You hope that the warmth and the gold and the silver will melt that sliver of ice right out of your spirit.

You suppose you will be fine – what did Miriel always say? There other things to do in life than just marriage. She just didn’t think that it was going to apply to you instead of her.

You know how to spend your time and it seems altogether unreasonable to linger here.

But at the same time you already know that there will be nobody else to come and claim those heroic children; Your heart had already made its decision even as his did.

…

They still write you, of course, ever long and verbose letters.

You are still their friend, and they have much to tell -

Their city prospers, the ingenuity of its citizens increases, and lest you forget, they have much to tell you about each other. Before you know it, Miriel is staying at the palace. The engagement proceeds at what seems to you like a breakneck pace – a year later, they’re married, and the people of Tirion would have to deal with a peculiar, solitary eccentric for a queen. Their opinion on this, as on nearly anything else, is of course divided.

You might almost think that those two somehow felt they had reason to hurry.

You write back, maybe not as often as you could.

You no longer see them all that often.

Even an eternal life is not a life without change, and so it is not unthinkable that you should grow apart, as you might have done one way or another even if your heart had not misplaced its bets.

You are a princess, and widely considered a cheerful, likeable person, so you do not exactly want for friends, and even the ache of your vain hope seems to fade when your brother finally finds himself a wife who brings with her the expectation of little nieces and nephews.

So by the time you hear that the King and Queen of Tirion are expecting their first child, you have very near finished the exercise of coming to care in a different capacity, and there is little insincere about your well wishes.

You think that it was only in the centuries to come that you’ve let yourself be slowly steadily convinced that you might have jinxed it after all.

The horrible idea of what if you had come first, or if you had pushed her aside so that it might have been you instead did never have all that much of a hold over you.

But as for the idea that you using your words could have led to a world where your dearest two friends never did have to suffer like that….

…

He is carrying their child in a sling when you next see him, and he looks bleary-eyed and terrible.

You come across him when he is trying his pathetic best to shush the infant whose prodigious wails had attracted you to this part of the gardens. He notices you right away with some degree of frantic surprise, but can’t afford to actually address you until after he managed to wrangle his son into some satisfactory semblance of calm, self-conscious as he may be when he finally meets your gaze.

“I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to make time for you in a while. Miriel is sorry as well… she was really looking forward to this trip to finally see you again, but her condition is still somewhat-”

There is no need for him to suffer the indignity of finishing that sentence.

You are startled enough as it is. Your sister-in-law had been up and about for _months_ when Ingwion was this age. Though you are not really sure of the comparison – Your brother, like yourself, is quite tall but still you seem to remember your nephew a good bit smaller at this point in his life.

And Miriel is much slighter and shorter than you. It’s not so strange when Finwe holds him since he is just above your brother’s height, but if you imagine _her_ holding this enormous, exceedingly loud child in her slender little arms, the ratio of woman to baby begins to look a little absurd in your mind.

“So she is still not recovered?”

“Not much” he admits, and then straight up amends: “Not at all.”

The upsetting subject matter seems to drag a dark cloud upon what should be a light-filled, long awaited meeting in a holy place, and the child’s intermittent blaring does not help with that at all.

You suppose that he must be missing his mother…

“I’m sorry about him, too. Miriel can’t really look after him much right now, and I’ve just had another governess quit on me. They say he tends to be… fussy… when someone other than me is holding him. I’ve got to find a new wet-nurse, too. Apparently, she says she had a vision that she and her daughter would both meet their end in an icy ravine if she continued to work at the palace...”

The desperate exhaustion was plain on his face. His irritation must have been a long time coming, for he continued to rant on more than it would usually have been his manner: “Far be it from me to question that. If she says she had a vision, then she probably had a vision. Still, to my knowledge there is nothing so much as resembling an icy ravine anywhere _near_ Tirion!”

It was then, after his temperament had already gotten the better of him, that it began to dawn on him that he had been ranting at you a good while without letting you get in much of a word after you had not seen each other in ages. It was probably his son’s displeased whines that snapped him back to reality when he realized that the child must have responded to his raising his voice, so that he found himself shushing the malcontent dark-haired boy once again.

“I must ask your forgiveness. We haven’t seen each other in more than a year, and this is how I introduce myself…” He seated himself on a low nearby wall, and waited for her to do the same before he allowed himself to sight on relief. “Perhaps I should not have brought him. I could probably have found someone to mind him for a few days.”

“...Daurin, perhaps?” you suggest tentatively.

To be honest you’re not so much offended or frustrated as you are very, very concerned.

“He’s with Miriel.”

“Couldn’t he look after them both?” you ask, careful not to sound disbelieving.

“It’s not that he can’t but -” he sighs again, resting his forehead on his fingertips. “I suppose I did not want to leave the baby out of my sight after all that has been going on with his mother.”

It was then that you really began to understand that things must be much worse than you had been expecting – though you’re not sure how you could have expected that for which you cannot fathom any explanation at all. “Has there been cause for worry?”

“Mercifully not!” he admits, though he draws his child closer to his chest as he says this. “So far he’s been doing just fine… he’s eating well, he’s growing, he’s meeting all his milestones – I just don’t know what I’d do with myself if both of them- ”

“...Finwe.”

You would have taken one of his hands if he didn’t have both of them chock full with his ostensibly ill-tempered, squirming bundle.

“Look. Miriel was your friend long before she was anything of mine, so I wish to be honest with you. I actually mean to petition Lord Manwe for a personal favor after I am done discussing matters of diplomacy with your brother. All the sages and healers in Tirion are very much at their wits’ end, and some of the things she has been saying lately have been worrysome, if not… upsetting.”

“Upsetting…?”

“For starters, she wants to call him ‘Feanaro’.”

…

You’re not sure what might have transpired during his audience with the Valar, but he seems worse for the wear when you go to check up on him.

He will probably assume that Ingwe sent you, but here is a secret that you once thought you would have to hang onto until the breaking of Arda:

No one sent you. No one at all.

You find Finwe sitting on one of the enormous guest beds in your brother’s palace. He has some semblance of work spread out for him on a nearby desk, but his mind, body and heart all seem very far from any productive employment.

Instead, you find him observing his tiny son who appears to have quieted down at long last and was now quietly napping in the rough center of the bed, though it didn’t seem to be in his nature to lie completely still even then, at least not without the occasional precarious little noise or suspicious wiggle of his thick little limbs.

Even so, the boys’s father appeared to be observing every rise and fall of his chest with some inexplicable sense of anxiety.

“I don’t understand anything that is happening”, he says by way of an explanation in the lowest whisper he could expect you to understand. “He is only a _baby._ ”

You deem it wise to make your next reply in mind-speech, making it the first order of business to explain to him that he should explicitly think any sentence he wanted you to hear so that you wouldn’t have to look beyond his surface thoughts. Between your smile and your best efforts to think in a soothing voice when you are inwardly feeling about as alarmed as he looked, you somehow manage to put him at ease.

“You know, there is probably little I could do that the Valar didn’t already think of, but about what you said earlier – about your wet-nurse quitting….”

“It used to be that Miriel did not even want to employ one at all!” you hear him fuming in frustration, though you cannot say if he actually meant for you to hear that thought, so you continue just as you had meant to: “Well, you might not need to. He looks just about old enough that you could maybe try feeding him yourself, with mashed fruits and vegetables or such. Some bananas maybe? You’d just have to crush them with a fork. Ingwion used to love mashed bananas. He still does to this day, just without the ‘mashed’ part.”

You would later return with a basket of baby-suitable fruit that you had picked up yourself on your latest walk through the orchards on your brother’s estate. When you bring it to him, he actually clasps your arms as if you were offering him the holy light itself in a goblet: “Oh, thank you, Indis!”

After he is departed back to Tirion, you cannot shake the sight of him from your mind, or the feeling of his pleading hands from your dreams.

You had all but accepted your fate; neither of you is going to be hit by a lightning strike of inspiration to mark the other down the other’s likeness in thread or paint or stone; and the shine in his eyes will never return to what it was when he was talking about Miriel in the days of their gladness. Even when his hands touched yours, you were only comforting each other.

But in a sense, he is very alluring like this, with his hair falling out of place and the anguish written on his face, all pale and poetic -

He is so very, very miserable, and you want so much to make it better, though you still feel in your heart that it is not really your place, even though you share that same grief more than almost anyone else; If you took him into your arms just as your heart aches to do, you don’t trust yourself to stay back from crossing lines that would either betray your friendship to him, or, if he should not rebuff you, the one you owe to Miriel.

You don’t know this, but you will never again see his eyes fully devoid of that lingering wistfulness, and never shall you make it go away, not even when you should at last receive him into your arms.

You know he is taken already, and though there might come a day when he could make room for you in his heart, part of him will always remain beyond your reach, hopelessly tangled in old vows and more conflicting responsibilities than any single person should ever have taken upon himself.

He will not expect to find you still there when he returns from Formenos, and when he doesn’t return at all, he will not think that you would miss him, and send back Miriel in his stead.

...

You don’t see very much of Finwe over the coming years aside from the odd diplomatic visit.

Ingwe kept inviting him to come and spend a while in the light and let go of his lingering grief, but so far he had always canceled at some point or another.

A lot of the time he declines, stating that he is busy with the duties of the crown or the obligations of parenthood – and who would expect that he would not have a lot on his plate?

Though he might have been blessed to rule in a time of peace and prosperity, it was his lot to raise his child all on his own.

When you do see him, the son of Miriel is indeed seldom far behind, a closed-off, sullen boy of stormy countenance sitting warily at the right of his father;

By this point, Ingwe has had several children, all of which once unanimously agreed that you were to be considered their favorite aunt even if you were the only one they had, but when it comes to the the child of the two closet people to your hear outside of your immediate family, to take up the role you’d always envisioned yourself in when you thought of Miriel having children, you can’t seem to do so much as to strike up a conversation.

Finwe says that he’s a bit standoffish, always marching to the beat of his own drum, and when he does, you begin to think that he’s starting to sound just a little lonely ever since the boy started spending most of his time absorbed in various creative or intellectual pursuits. It’s comforting insofar as that it sounds a bit like Miriel, but you can’t say that it doesn’t sadden you that you can’t seem to win him over.

Of course, he did not hate you back then; not yet; You had yet to experience the receiving end of his adamant will, and he had yet to point a sword to the chest of the son you never expected to have;

You think you even looked to Finwe’s particular devotion to his child as something very charming then, even admirable – look at him, you thought, taking care of the poor boy all on his own, how dedicated he is, how unfailing in his priorities – you thought then that it might have been some great privilege, to be the mother of his children, to have him dote over _your_ children that way, to the exclusion of almost everything else, in some hypothetical, imaginary world where you would not have had to contend with the reality that his great attachment to Miriel’s son was not going to lessen or disappear just because your own children had been added to the mix;

And for the most part, you had taken all this love that you didn’t know what to do with and spread it out on the gardens and orchards and all the little green things sprouting out all over the lifetime, everything that seemed untended, forgotten, fallen by the wayside, everything haunted by ghosts of could have beens -

Until that golden day on the slopes of the holy mountain, when he looked you in the eyes, cupped your face in his hand, and softly spoke in your ear:

“It’s not fair, is it? That you and I alone in all this land should be deprived of our dreams. Isn’t it very unfair?”

What is the most unfair of all is that he should at last finally see what you had so long concealed, only to turn right around to wield it against you, or that his words should still be enough to unseal your lips before his own, much like a locksmith may use a wire to pry open a door for which the proper key had been lost.

“Yes, yes, very unfair-”

And he grasped your hands again, this time firm and resolute.

“We’ll speak to Manwe. I am sure that we can make him understand.”

And though he never looked more like the torch-bearing stranger portrayed in Miriel’s tapestry, you held on and followed after him.

…

Many centuries later, it still stings to see the look of wariness on the face of your grandson when he recognizes your figure turning the corner – well, he is not _really_ your grandson, but he is Finwe’s; that makes it really quite the same for many purposes and intents, if by far not all.

Circumstance being what it is, he does not see you often without either Finwe or his parents present, and you can tell that he is trying his best to remain composed, so you really cannot fault him, but it _does_ sting to see his long fingers tense around whatever tools he is currently holding, or the well-hidden flutter in his voice when he says “Lady Indis”, though it is probably the most polite thing he could think of when both ‘Queen’ and ‘Grandmother’ are firmly off the table.

The way he says it, you can tell he doesn’t mean to offend you – he’s just not free to act as he would otherwise, and what else would you expect, since he is Finwe’s grandson, and Miriel’s, though he seems to take much after Nerdanel’s side of the family with all that mass of red curls.

(It is not at all rare that you think about how much Miriel would have liked Nerdanel)

 _Your_ Grandson is sitting right next to him with his prized harp in his hand, of course beaming brightly at the sight of you, with a smile that shines no less bright than the gold wire in his braids, and that makes it that much easier to keep up the smile yourself.

You have learned long since learned that you cannot prove yourself to some. You can only be, and then let that speak for itself.

“Helloo everyone~” you say, with the good cheer that you do not precisely feel, but wish to see in the world. “Are you playing music?”

“Yeah, _l_ _ots_ of music!”

Still you can sense young Maitimo’s reluctance, but your precious little Findekano, of course, has absolutely no reservations about responding to you with more than equal enthusiasm. Like just about everyone else he ever spoke to in the thus far brief years of his life, you can seldom hold back a pang of fondness in the presence of his bright demeanor. Ever since he was born, he had seemed blessed with an inexplicable talent to befriend just about everyone and everything in sight. In a bittersweet way, he reminds you much of his father in his early years, before he got weighed down by the responsibilities of a high prince and the consequence of many actions that had been beyond his control.

You think he was only somewhat older than Findekano is now when you last saw him express such unrestrained enthusiasm as his own son was now putting into describing his latest pastime: “Well, actually, _I’ve_ been the one playing the music, Russandol says he’s got to sort out this toolbox before he’s allowed to go play with us, but I was bored so I thought how you always say, about how all the chores are always much more fun with _music~”_

At this point, even Maitimo could not quite help cracking an awkward smile. “...Father always says that it’s important to have a proper rhythm… while working?” He vaguely mimed the motion of a hammer in case his brave attempts at speaking should prove inconclusive. “You’re not angry with us, are you?”

You don’t get the chance to reply much before Findekano interrupted your with a fit of giggles:

“Oh come on, Russandol, Gran-Gran is not gonna be mad because we played _music._ ”

His older cousin, however, suspected that your concerns might be somewhere else:

“I really wasn’t going to let him play with any dangerous tools or anything! Please believe me! I-I’ll promise if you want- On my honor!”

As accustomed as you are to the antics of young children, you can only shake your head at this.

“There’s no need. I believe you. I’m not mad at all.”

“Told you!” exclaimed Findekano, subjecting his cousin to the most adorable of tiny playful shoves. “Gran-Gran _always_ plays music with us. She even taught me to play! And Findarato!”

“Ah. Excuse me, Lady, I really had no idea… The two of them are quite accomplished though, so I suppose they must have had a good teacher...”

“Thank you! Though I would say that playing songs with one’s family and friends is really more about having fun together than being accomplished… In fact, seeing you two together like that just reminded me of something similar that I always used to do with _my_ very best friends when I was younger.”

“Like who?!” Findekano, unsurprisingly, looks at you with big, excited eyes.

You hesitate a bit, but then you make the choice to just go out and say it: “Like my good friend Miriel.”

Judging by the marks of confusion that were beginning to crease the young redhead’s face, this was the first he had heard of it. Knowing how he viewed the matter, you can’t say you’re surprised that his father would never have mentioned this. But it’s not Feanor’s son that’s the first to ask further questions: “But if she’s supposed to be your best friend, how come I’ve never met any Miriel? Does she live far inland, like Uncle Ingwe?”

You deem it best to answer before Maitimo feels compelled to take that upon himself. Findekano is still young and besides, though your motives might not be entirely selfless, some part of you wants the boys to remember this as a happy memory… So this is what you say:

“No, she doesn’t, but she does not live in Tirion either, at least not right now… But she used to. She was one of my best friends ever when your uncle Ingwe and I were going on the great journey. And you know what? She is actually Maitimo’s Gran-Gran. You can your grandfather or your Aunt Nerdanel if you don’t believe me. We used to do it just the same: She would be singing while she was working, and I would play music to go along with it.”

You know you’ve done something right when it was Maitimo who posed the next question: “Was it to keep the proper rhythm?”

“Maybe. But I think also think really liked singing. She had a really pretty voice, too. Actually, I think that if she had not become a broideress, maybe she would have become a musician instead.”

“My little brother wants to be a musician.” blurted Maitimo. “He can play the harp real good, too.”

“Really? Then we have to get everyone together someday, and, like, all play music together! And we need to get Findarato, too… I can’t believe our Gran-Grans were actually secretly best friends the whole time!”

“Yep!” you answer, and by now, your big smile is genuine. “This is why it makes me very, very happy to see you two getting along like this, and you know what? I bet Miriel would love it too, if she were here today.”


End file.
